


bound to each other's hearts. caught, torn, and pulled apart

by HellNHighHeels



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: F/F, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-04
Updated: 2018-09-28
Packaged: 2019-05-01 20:12:27
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 19,864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14528274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HellNHighHeels/pseuds/HellNHighHeels
Summary: A collection of my Tumblr drabbles





	1. You're warm

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The TARDIS door swings open, slamming against the side of his ship with more flourish than intended. A sea of grey walls and erratic light blind his senses. The Doctor blinks hard, willing his eyes to function. He spots her hair first, the golden mass like a ray of sunshine in a storm cloud. The rest of the world follows suit, materializing around him in the form of concrete and prison bars.
> 
> “River!” The Doctor bellows, skipping out of his ship as if he meant to land here all along. “There you are!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’d like to request “you’re warm” with River and Eleven for the writing prompt please? :)

The TARDIS door swings open, slamming against the side of his ship with more flourish than intended. A sea of grey walls and erratic light blind his senses. The Doctor blinks hard, willing his eyes to function. He spots her hair first, the golden mass like a ray of sunshine in a storm cloud. The rest of the world follows suit, materializing around him in the form of concrete and prison bars.

“River!” The Doctor bellows, skipping out of his ship as if he meant to land here all along. “There you are!”

The vixen before him seems entirely unconcerned with his arrival, her attentions devoted to her wardrobe and what appears to be an endless shelf of shoes. He must be seeing things because such an occurrence would be impossible and against regulations and almost as distracting as the silk robe she’s wearing. It clings to her hips in a way that turns his insides into goo, and if his limbs wobble more than usual as he bumbles into her cell, River doesn’t comment on it.

Closer inspection of the room bids him to notice the dress she’s laid out on her cot. Draped across dingy sheets might be the most daring bit of cloth he’s ever seen. The Doctor’s eyes travel back to River, imagining her inside it. His pupils have chosen to dilate of their own accord, a predicament that only amplifies when he spots her red lips and extra bouncy hair. She looks as if she’s getting ready for a date, or possibly a heist, and he can’t help but wonder if it’s him she’s waiting for. He doesn’t have to suffer the curiosity long, the question answered almost as soon as it flutters through his thoughts.

“You’re late,” is all River sees fit to purr, not even bothering to turn around. The Doctor finds himself pulled toward her, summoned by the sound of her voice.

He’s not entirely sure for what it is he’s tardy, but unable to admit fault, the Doctor can’t seem to stop his mouth as it argues, “You’re not even dressed.”

“Only because I know you.” There’s a twinkle in her eyes as she finally turns to face him.

Their bleak surroundings only serve to make River all the more radiant, and his eyes can’t help the way they trace the seam of her robe, traveling down her sternum. His legs have turned to jelly, and he swears Stormcage never used to be this warm. The Doctor rests one hand against the wall, leaning as casually as one can with a scantily clad criminal only a few meters away.  

He fights the urge to loosen his necktie, but his flushed cheeks must give him away because emerald eyes study him, wary as she asks, “Doctor, how old are you?”

“Nine hundred and something,” he answers, trying not to sway towards her and failing. “Why? Does it matter?”

“Yes, actually.” Suspicious eyes are trained on him, her arms folded, and oh look at that. She’s gone all defensive. “It matters a great deal.”

“Why does my age matter?” He asks, interest peaked, equal parts skeptical and curious. But his head doesn’t seem to want to cooperate. It’s gone all light and dizzy, his tongue loose as it desperately tries to chase a single train of thought. “Did you get me something for my birthday? Oh! Is it a new fez? You shot my last one.”

“And I’ll shoot the next one, too,” River deadpans.

The Doctor’s eyes narrow at her, or at least he thinks they do. She seems to have multiplied when he wasn’t paying attention. He focuses his energy on the one on the left, hypnotized by how the ends of her hair have begun to spark like lightning. "River, how can there be two of you?”

“Are you asking?” River smirks. “Because that’s definitely a birthday wish I can get on board with.”

The idea is a rather distracting one, but it isn’t nearly as captivating as her mouth. Her teeth are barred like a Cheshire cat, mischief and mystery in the corners of her smile. He’d reach out and touch them if he didn’t fear she’d bite him or put her wicked lips to use in other ways.

She kissed him once, in this very room, sprung it on him like the lioness she is. Even now, her green eyes are sharp, trained on him even as the wall behind her begins to blur. The floor’s gone all wobbly, too, and it’s really rather rude of her, changing the gravity without warning him first. He takes a step to the side, swaying with the room, and the Doctor’s knees buckle beneath him.

“Doctor,” River gasps, rushing to his aid and capturing him before the floor leaps up and collides with his face.

He’s covered in River now, and his hands seem to have a mind of their own as they make a home on her hips. One of hers is wrapped around his waist, the other resting gently on his shoulder. Those ever perceptive eyes of hers are scrutinizing his face, and he has to blink hard, reminding his secrets not to spill themselves at her feet.

“Are you alright?” She asks, though he suspects she already knows the answer.

Her breath ghost across his skin like velvet, and maybe it’s the desire to feel it again, to hear her talk, even if she’s scolding him, that urges him to answer, “Had a spot of trouble with some warrior clerics. But no matter. I handled it.”

“Handled it  _how_?” Her voice is a warning, the tempting kind that makes his pulse skip.

“Drank their holy water.” He offers easily, one of his fingers coiling around a strand of her curls. “But don’t worry. I’m fine. Venenium doesn’t effect Time Lords.”

“No,” River stresses, her velvet voice suddenly stern. “Venoshium doesn’t effect Time Lords.  _Venenium_  is a very potent psychedelic.”

“Oh,” is all that falls from his mouth. But in his defense, how is he supposed to say much of anything when River’s warm curves are pressed into his side and her silk robe is so soft beneath his palm?

River’s hands are giving him their undivided attention, stroking and caressing along his torso. Her nails tickle as they skim over his chest, neck, and temples, stuttering only to check his pulse points. The pads of her fingers are soft and cool to the touch, his neurons firing so rapidly he sees stars. It’s all very intoxicating, and when he wills his vision to stop swimming, he finds that River’s easy smile has contorted, eyes wide and full of awe and worry as she breathes, “You’re hot.”

“Thank you,” he preens. “I was wondering if you’d noticed.”

“No, I mean you’re warm.” She pats his clammy cheeks, green eyes suddenly frantic. “Sweetie, you’re burning up.”

The next thing he knows, his feet are moving backwards towards the bed in the corner of the room. Without his permission, his surroundings have gotten murky and muddled and far away. All he knows is the firm press of River’s hands as she sits him down, guiding him until he’s flat on his back. She’s careful and precise and gentle and it’s not at all how he imagined it, being bedded by River Song.

“You’re in no condition for that.” Above him, River is smirking, shameless lips curled in a way that makes him swallow hard. Her robe has fallen open and his eyes fly wide at the exposed skin, acutely focused despite his erratic thoughts.

His mouth has gone dry, and his tongue snakes out to wet parched lips. Fingers twitch to touch her and he doesn’t mean to, but his body attempts to right itself, reaching for her. River’s hands stop him, finding his chest and pushing him back down before he can float away.

“Absolutely not,” she tuts, putting a cloth to his head. “You need to be still.”

She uses her duvet as a weapon, draping it over him and pinning his lanky form to the bed. River busies herself tucking and checking and fussing. She’s gone into nurse mode, apparently, and come to think of it, Rory’s a nurse. Funny that, why hadn’t Sexy brought him to the Ponds if she knew he needed help?

“You were right to come to me. They wouldn’t have known what do to,” River tells him, which is odd since he hadn’t spoken out loud.

“I didn’t know you were psychic.”

“I’m not. You’re mumbling. It’s a stage two side effect.”

“What’s stage three?”

“Without treatment? Fatal.” She answers easily, busy hands reaching for something in her handbag. “Luckily, I’m good with hallucinogens.”

When her capable fingers return to his sight, they’re bringing a small glass vile to his lips. The Doctor frowns even as he sips at the potion, eyes on her mouth as he mutters, “This isn’t how you normally drug people.”

River offers him a quirked brow, her scolding glance betrayed by a playful smirk. “I’m curing you. Not poisoning you. Now hush before I change my mind.”

The Doctor surrenders, settling into her prison cot. It’s lumpy and the springs squeak as he nuzzles into her pillow. The coarse fabric smells like her, and the Doctor’s eyes shut, smiling.

“River,” he asks softly, fighting against the current of sleep because a very important question has just blossomed in his mind. “Do you think I’m hot?”

“I already told you,” River starts. “You’re running a temperature of at least-“

“Besides that,” he cuts in. “Am I, you know,  _hot_?”

Even though the outside world is murky, he still hears River clear as day, fond exasperation on her tongue as she sighs, “Yes, sweetie. You’re hot.”

“Even in a fez?” He can’t help but add, and maybe it’s the hallucinations talking, but he’s sure he hears her whisper-

“Even in a fez.”


	2. Can I kiss you?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They’ve been emailing. Her ridiculous husband has been chattering away, nonsense and jokes mixed in with escape plans and loopholes. She sends naughty messages to his sunglasses and he always answers her with soon.She writes to him and tells him that she misses him. Not for much longer, he promises. But time doesn’t mean much here. A century can happen in a second and she isn’t certain how long she’s been here, how long her atoms have been nothing but code.
> 
> It takes a lifetime and no time at all for her to finally receive the words, River Song, get your coat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One Hundred Ways to Say ‘I Love You’ : may I challenge you to do both 37 and 39 in the same one ? :D (Sounds hard to me but if you can't do it, no one can !)

They’ve been emailing.  Her ridiculous husband has been chattering away, nonsense and jokes mixed in with escape plans and loopholes. She sends naughty messages to his sunglasses and he always answers her with  _soon._ She writes to him and tells him that she misses him.  _Not for much longer_ , he promises. But time doesn’t mean much here. A century can happen in a second and she isn’t certain how long she’s been here, how long her atoms have been nothing but code.

It takes a lifetime and no time at all for her to finally receive the words,  _River Song, get your coat._

It tingles at first, disintegrating, dissolving, shredding into dust only to be reassembled anew. River always imagined it would feel more like regenerating, that it would be warm and intoxicating, and leave her flush with raw adrenaline. But what started off as static now feels more like lightning in her veins. It burns more than she thought it would, less like the sun and more like hot grease. It  _hurts_ , and there’s something she hasn’t felt in a while. Her consciousness integrates with this brand new body, and pain licks at her insides, nerve endings roaring to life for the very first time.

When she gasps in a fresh breath of air, her lungs stretch and fill until she’s drowning, choking on oxygen she’s forgotten how to breathe. Everything is bright, blinding eyes that have never been opened. There’s a voice, a soothing hum echoing around her, in ears that are desperately trying to recall how sounds work.

“River,” she hears through the chaos of her screaming body. “River, open your eyes.”

Her name is foreign and familiar, spoken from the lips of a lover and a stranger. River wills her eyes to open, blinking past spots that blind her. She lifts her arms to block the light, but she doesn’t make it far before her wrists are captured. The fingers pressing against her skin sting like daggers, and River gasps at the delicious burn of being touched.

The hands on her loosen their grip instantly and River lets out a mournful sob at the loss. Her eyes refuse to open, to function, to see anything but shadows and shapes. But her ears are catching on, focusing intently on the soft, “Shh,” that fills an otherwise silent room. Delicate fingertips trail over her forearms and biceps, and it’s only when they reach her cheeks that River realizes the Doctor’s fingers are no longer calloused.

“Sweetie?” she questions, willing her tongue to work. River’s eyes open just in time to see a figure lean forward, eclipsing all light.

“I’m here,” a soft voice answers, and it isn’t at all the one she’d been expecting.

River’s eyes come into focus on a woman with short blonde hair and kind eyes. She’s never seen her before, but River would know that crooked, hopeful smile anywhere. She blames her tired lungs for the breathless way she says, “Doctor?”

The woman above her bites her lip, a light shrug on her narrow shoulders. “Guilty.”

A laugh or a sob, joy and sadness and relief bubbles off River’s tongue. Another life spent by her ridiculous lover, yet never once in their letters had she mentioned narrowly escaping peril. River fights through the haze of her erratically sparking neurons, finding the strength to ask, “What happened?”

“Cybermen,” the Doctor answers, then her face scrunches. “I think. It took a long time. I got bored of remembering how it started.”

River shakes her head fondly, attempting to sit upright. The Doctor is quick to assist her, cradling her shoulders. River can’t help but notice how her wife’s dainty new hands are as steady and sure as they’ve always been. “How long have you had the new body?”

“Not too long,” her wife answers, ducking her head, eyes downcast. “Probably should have mentioned, but I didn’t know how to..” her voice trails off, hands wringing nervously as she finally finds her nerve and sighs, “Sorry, I know this isn’t exactly the face you were expecting.”

Insecurity is written across her lover’s face, because what she means is, she isn’t sure it’s  _a face River would like_. The knowledge that her wife is apparently just as ridiculous as all her former faces makes River laugh out, voice bright and eyes warm as she declares, “You’re an idiot.”

The cadence of River’s voice is nothing if not fond, and the Doctor smiles, relief written in the crinkles around her hazel eyes. Unable to resist any longer, River’s hand reaches out to find her wife’s hair. It feels exactly as her Doctor has always felt, tangled and somehow still soft beneath her palm. It’s all too much, being alive again, having hearts that beat and her Doctor by her side. Her brand new eyes have begun to sting, and it isn’t until she blinks, until little drops of joy catch on her lashes that she realizes she’s crying.

“Now, now, none of that,” the Doctor teases, running a thumb over the apple of River’s cheek. Her skin tingles at the touch and as much as River would like to hold her new body accountable, she knows it’s entirely the Doctor’s fault. River’s always been weak for her lover, her skin ablaze at every touch. Another tear rolls down her cheek and the Doctor’s other hand comes up to cup her face. “Don’t cry.”

Her wife’s words are fragile and pleading and River swallows around a laugh. “They’re happy tears,” River explains, and the Doctor brightens.

“Does that mean..?” she stutters, shy eyes blinking up at River through her lashes. “Can I kiss you?”

A smile blooms on River’s cheeks, the muscles aching as they remember how to stretch sweetly across her face. “You’d better.”


	3. Go back to sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She talks in her sleep. For as long as he can remember, he’s watched over River as she slept. He’d sit up and listen to her mumble about bullets and ballgowns and everything in between. She mutters about anything from paradoxes to pastries, her incoherent ramblings never failing to captivate him.
> 
> When he was younger, he would try to read his future in the way her eyes danced behind her lids. More often than not, she would awake with a start, a gasp on her lips and fear hidden behind calculating eyes. He always wondered what could scare her, this specter who haunted him so. What did she dream of, this woman who so clearly read his every thought?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from the 100 ways to say I love you list: “Go back to sleep.” (Bonus if you did this in ATRIRAS universe because I am such a huge fan ;)

She talks in her sleep. For as long as he can remember, he’s watched over River as she slept. He’d sit up and listen to her mumble about bullets and ballgowns and everything in between. She mutters about anything from paradoxes to pastries, her incoherent ramblings never failing to captivate him.

When he was younger, he would try to read his future in the way her eyes danced behind her lids. More often than not, she would awake with a start, a gasp on her lips and fear hidden behind calculating eyes. He always wondered what could scare her, this specter who haunted him so. What did she dream of, this woman who so clearly read his every thought?

He dared to find out once, a long time ago when he wore a different face. Even when he delved into her sleeping mind, he was never brave enough to dig deep. Fear of spoilers had always loomed like a pit between them, her past, her thoughts, her secrets just an abyss he’d fall into and be consumed by.

Those fears can’t touch him now, not in the wake of everything they’ve been through. The future isn’t a chain that holds him down. It’s a possibility that gives him wings. There’s no more cause to run, no dark days to come hiding in her subconscious. Their tangled time lines have been unraveled, and yet, there’s still so much about her he can’t quite define.

River lies beside him on the bed, nestled between pillows and sheets. She’s been dreaming contently for hours or eons, and his own lids are just beginning to grow heavy when he hears a soft moan escape her lips. The sound of it jolts his body awake, his mind dragged back into focus. When his blinking eyes come to, he notices her features have slipped, her easy smile replaced by tight lips. Her brow has knit together, and he finds the soft frown doesn’t suit at all.

His fingertips move of their own accord, brushing over her forehead until the lines have been smoothed away. The soft touch bids her lips to part, and the Doctor smiles to see the way her unease is undone by a simple caress of his fingers. Her reprieve lasts only as long as his skin meets hers, because the moment he lowers his hand, her features contort once again. A pained frown tugs at her sweet lips, and he’s helpless to stop the way his fingers gravitate to her temple once more.

Her mind calls to him like the sun does to flower petals, and he finds himself pulled toward the warmth of her subconscious. There’s no spoilers to stop him now, and he’s suddenly overcome with the need to come between her and whatever monsters cloud her dreams. His eyes fall shut as the window between them opens, a wave of adrenaline swallowing him whole. Her mind is a tapestry of greens and golds, of burnt ambers and freshly cut grass, of sunsets and space and shadows, of books and bright lights and the need for something blue.

She’s running from someone, of course she is. His River is always knee deep in trouble, even in her dreams. Her hearts are pounding and something sharp and metallic licks at his mind.  _Fear,_ he realizes, and the Doctor’s own oxygen freezes in his lungs. Without a second thought, he presses ever so gently into her mind, projecting himself into her dream. Her thoughts are clearer now, the deeper he goes. It smells like rain and mud and dust, and his hand covers hers, fingers entwining. River’s breath hitches the moment he does, but she doesn’t stir from her slumber. She grips him tight, like she dreams of their carefully clasped fingers whenever dangers nips at her heels, like his hand is a lifeline she’s reached for countless times before.

The shiver in her veins fades, replaced by the feel of something synthetic. It feels thick as cotton in his mouth, and if déjà vu had a taste, this would be it. It’s odd, to be an abstract thought tip-toeing in someone else’s subconscious. Even for a dream, it feels surreal, somehow lacking, almost but not quite. River looks as real as ever, standing in a dress as white as the wedding gown she never got to wear. She smiles at him like all her Christmases have come at once, and he tries not to let his own swelling joy bleed into her dreams. He tries to float among her thoughts even as his feet are planted firmly in her mind. Grass tickles between his toes and the sight of a nearby lake nearly makes him choke. But River’s pulse is steady, subdued, and he doesn’t understand why until he looks past her for the first time.

A child with dark hair waves from the distance, and he knows now, why the air tastes like copper and dust and computer code. His fingers coil tight around River’s hand, pulling her toward him, away from this place until her eyes can see nothing but him. There’s no point in dreaming about the past when they have so much left to discover. He takes control of the dream, pressing harder into her mind until their surroundings fade away. Greens and blues turn to smoke around them as he guides her into sweeter visions.

River’s eyes break from his to take in their new location. They’re standing on a crystallized ice cloud, ankle deep in ivory cotton and surrounded by black, star specked sky. And when she looks back to him, she smiles like she’s got a secret just begging to slip from her lips. Her arms fold around his neck and as his hands find her hips, he discovers her dress has changed. It’s red and radiant and distracting, the neckline plunging in a way only her mind could conjure. He takes the first step, or maybe she does, but the next thing he knows they’re dancing, gliding, spinning, stirring up the clouds at their feet until wisps of fluffy white float around them like bubbles before sailing off into black sky.

The air no longer tastes synthetic. It’s as fresh as a memory, as her perfume and ozone and the faintest hint of wine. Her laughter may as well be music as he spins her out only to pull her back in again. She twirls and the light from distant suns reflects off her hair like sprinkles of gold dust. River presses herself into him, her chest warm against his, and it’s hard to believe that it’s nothing more than a mirage.  

“It’s very rude, you know,” River coos, her words echoing in his mind, voice light as the clouds they stand on.

His palm finds her lower back, pulling her in closer, his own question floating into her subconscious. “What is?”

River smirks at him, coy and sweet and he’s so lost in the way the starlight catches on the apples of her cheeks it’s almost alarming when he hears her say, “Peeking into people’s dreams.”

The Doctor snaps his eyes open, finding River staring back at him. The smell of ozone vanishes like a cloth ripped from a table, cotton clouds replaced by satin sheets. The warmth of their bedroom is a blanket surrounding him, and on pain of death he’ll swear that’s why his cheeks have gone red as he argues, “You’re not people.”

“I’m half people,” River counters and the Doctor shrugs.

“Well it’s only half rude, then, isn’t it.”

Green eyes narrow as River stifles a yawn, managing to glare at him all the while. It’s adorable and only slightly terrifying and the Doctor bites back his own smile, eyes soft.

“I didn’t mean to wake you. Go back to sleep.”

“I’d rather be awake.”  A devious twinkle sparks to life around her irises as River snakes one of her clever hands across the duvet. But the Doctor is faster, snatching the limb up before his wife can have her wicked way.

“I’ll bet you would,” he grins, pressing her knuckles to his lips. But as much as he’d like to tucker her out again, “You need rest.”

“And you don’t?”

“Nope.”

His wife scoffs, rolling her eyes. “Hypocrite.”

“Harlot,” he grins back, and River’s eyes narrow once again, jaw clenching as she bites back another yawn.

He pulls her toward him then, tucking her into his side. River nuzzles into his chest with a tenderness she’d cut her own tongue off before ever admitting to, a sigh on her lips as she mutters, “You don’t have to do that.”

The Doctor presses his face into her mass of hair, inhaling deep and delighting in the smell of honey and sweat and the faintest hint of smoke. “Do what?”

“Supervise my dreams.”

He does, in fact. He’s made a promise to himself, no more nightmares, not in this new life they’re building. If that means he has to stay awake forever to guarantee nightmares never steal her smiles and drag her to dark places, then so be it. But she’d never accept such an answer, so instead the Doctor scoffs and says, “Who said anything about that? Maybe I’m just nosy.”

River snorts, a puff of hot air against his chest. “No arguments here.”

“A first time for everything,” he mumbles back, words swallowed by her riotous curls.

Even as they bicker, his arms fold ever tighter around her. It still doesn’t feel real, as if she’ll turn to smoke at any moment. He tells himself she won’t, the reminder that she’s here to stay a mantra in his head he plays on repeat. But nothing reassures him the way River can. Her palm rests over his hearts like the sound of it is all the lullaby she’ll ever need to keep the nightmares at bay.

Stillness settles like a full moon on a cloudless night. River’s eyes have fallen shut again, her hearts a slow and steady rhythm, her voice already heavy with sleep. “Won’t you rest at all, darling?”

“Not tired,” he breathes, and what he means is, he doesn’t want to miss this. He refuses to waste another moment with her. He’d rather hold her and count the breathes she takes as her chest rises and falls. He’d rather study her face and the way she smiles as she sinks slowly into slumber.

“Join me in my dreams then,” River whispers.

The invitation paints a smile on his lips. Unable to deny her anything, he brings his hand up to cup her face, fingertips brushing her temple. Her mind sparks against his skin, and the Doctor takes a deep breath, filling his lungs with the smell of her shampoo. When he exhales, he’s back in the moonlight of her mind. River reaches for him, a tingle against his palm as he takes her hand in his and guides her into the sweetest of dreams.


	4. I think you are beautiful

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wakes up covered in blood, sometimes hers, sometimes not. She never knows why. One minute she’s in a shop or a pub or a train and the next she’s in an alley or a crashing ship or a city she’s never seen. Days disappear and cuts and scrapes come from thin air. She has aches and pains she can’t explain, bruises that look like the fingers of creatures she can’t quite place.
> 
> She doesn’t know why they take her or what they make her do, but sometimes she fights back. Sometimes she almost remembers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> could you do "I think you are beautiful" for River/Eleven please ? :) (i'm a bit obsessed with your drabbles !)

She wakes up covered in blood, sometimes hers, sometimes not. She never knows why. One minute she’s in a shop or a pub or a train and the next she’s in an alley or a crashing ship or a city she’s never seen. Days disappear and cuts and scrapes come from thin air. She has aches and pains she can’t explain, bruises that look like the fingers of creatures she can’t quite place.

She doesn’t know why they take her or what they make her do, but sometimes she fights back. Sometimes she almost remembers.

More often than not, her struggles leave fresh burns on her body and static in her hair, the crisp bite of electricity shrouding her like a cloak she can’t remove. The room she’s in now is free of white noise and whispers. There’s a hum in the air that sounds like  _safe_. The walls are unfamiliar, but she vaguely recalls coming here, being carried, cradled like a child. She remembers her ribs stinging with every step her savior took, and as River sits up in a foreign bed, her side screams in agony. A protective hand springs to the wounded area, her palm met with a substance so warm and sticky it can only be blood. Her shirt is ruined, as are the sheets, and River tosses the duvet aside, staggering to her feet.

Carpet is soft between her toes as she makes her way to the bathroom, fingers groping along the wall for a switch. When she finally finds her prize, the room bursts to life, blinding her. A smear of red is left behind on the wall, but it’s the view in front of her that steals her attention. It’s still a little alarming, catching sight of this new body in the mirror. Her reflection looks like a traitor, it’s soft curves hiding the jagged edges of her tattered soul. There’s a light in her green eyes that distracts from the darkness in her hearts. But it’s the ever -inviting lips, perpetually stained red, that serve as a reminder of her crimes and the past she can’t seem to outrun.

As she studies her strange, new features, she finds her skin is pale from blood loss, her eyes more lost than wild, more uncertain than angry. She doesn’t look at all like the creature that lurks beneath. River’s gaze falls, green eyes taking in the sight of her trembling assassin’s hands and thinks that she doesn’t look at all like the monster she knows she is.

_“The worst monsters never do,” the woman in black tells her. The brush snags at her hair with every stroke of the Madame’s hand. Melody refuses to wince. It’s over faster if she doesn’t flinch, if she hides the hurt, if she blocks out the pain the way she ignores the trigger blisters that have turned her fingers raw. “Now, Melody,“ the woman’s raspy voice coos, “be a good girl and list mummy the casualties one more time.”_

River shakes away the nightmare that bursts behind her eyes, devoting her attentions to the wound at her side. She lifts her shirt, finding gauze already patching the angry skin. The cloth needs replacing and River begins peeling it back to get a better look. It stings, taking raw flesh with it as River removes the ruined cloth and tosses it into the bin. A makeshift medical bag is already sat on the sink, leftover from whoever found her, she supposes. She reaches for it without a second thought, hands trembling as they rifle through the kit to find another bandage. When they find their prize, a shaking hand brings it back to her side. She drops it a time or two, her fingers refusing to grip, and maybe it’s the pain or the blood loss taking its toll, but she startles when a soft voice resonates from the corner of the room.

“May I?” The question fills the quiet room like a gun shot. River’s gaze darts to the mirror, finding the Doctor standing behind her. He looms in the doorway, formidable and somehow fragile. His shoulders are broad, but his eyes are kind as they peek up at her through messy brown hair.

Her hearts skip, and not from surprise. It occurs to her that she should be, wary, that is, and yet the sight of him is more soothing than startling. She stares back at him blankly, lips parted on words she can’t find when he raises his brow expectantly, gesturing to the hem of her shirt. Remembering herself, River swallows hard, giving a stiff nod. He takes a step towards her and River’s obliging hands fall to her sides as she turns to face him.

“Have a seat,” he offers, coming to a stop a little closer than she expected him to. She can see every line on his face, every pore and blemish. It makes her insides coil, the knowledge that last time he crept this close to her, her lips still tasted vaguely of poison.

She does as he asked, scooting back onto the bathroom counter if only to put distance between them. There are so many things she wants to ask: where she was and how he found her; what was she fighting this time and did anyone make it out alive? But it’s hard to form words when the Oncoming Storm’s fingers are curling under the hem of her shirt, lifting it just enough to expose her damaged side. She’s lost in the way his eyes flicker, a scowl painting his face, as if the sight of dried blood on her skin offends him.

He studies her, and, in turn, River drinks him in with calculating eyes, memorizing his movements. It isn’t his first time dressing an injury, which isn’t surprising given his bloody history. But that doesn’t stop the wrinkles from forming on his brow as he concentrates. His hands are dexterous and quick, but intimate too. There’s familiarity in how he gently dabs a wet cloth over her torn flesh. She can’t help but wonder if he’s done this before, if she crawls into the TARDIS at all hours of the night, if he stitches her up and asks for nothing in return but the hope that she’ll smile.

The pads of his fingers brush against the sensitive dip at her waist and River fights against a shiver, telling herself the cool tile is to blame. Her own hands are still shaking as they grip the edge of the counter, and it only makes sense for them to quiver under the circumstances. These hands were never meant to heal. Only destroy.

Eager for a distraction, she allows her eyes to wander about the room for the first time. It’s messier than she imagined the inner workings of the TARDIS would be. Various knickknacks sit cluttered on the dresser, clothing haphazardly tossed into the drawers. A tube of toothpaste sits open and half used on the counter beside her, and in the reflection of the closet mirror she’s sure she can see a sword propped up next to a twenty first century Earth police uniform.

“Is this your bedroom?” River asks, curiosity disturbing the stillness between them.

The Doctor’s mouth twitches into a fond smile. “No, it’s your parents’ actually.”

The revelation makes her eyes drift, soaking in details she’d previously overlooked. The walls are lavender. Amy had always liked that color. Without her permission, flashes of sleepovers, staying up late, and making forts out of pillow cases and comforters invade her mind.

_“Is he hot?”_

_“No. He’s funny.”_

River shakes the thought away, trying not to hiss as the Doctor dabs her wound with antiseptic. “Why did you bring me here?”

“Well I thought about taking you to the guest room, but then I remembered that’s where the bunk beds were moved to,” he babbles, letting his lips move faster than his common sense. “Could have just gotten rid of them, I suppose, but then I thought, we can’t just throw out bunk beds! It’s a bed. With a ladder. So I brought you in here. Not as cool, I know, and a bit messy by the looks of-”

“No,” she interrupts, “ _here_ , as in the TARDIS.”

His hands still in their efforts, eyes meeting hers, watching with an intensity that rivals his otherwise casual demeanor. “Where else would I have brought you?”

River scoffs in disbelief. “I don’t know. Anywhere. Nowhere. Why do you even care?”

“Because I made a promise to keep you safe,” he confesses. “And it’s one I plan on living up to.”

It’s hard to hold his gaze when he looks at her like this, when he stares at her in the wistful, nostalgic way one would an old photograph. She wills herself not to look away, green eyes narrowing at him, the cadence of her voice accusatory as she questions, “A promise to whom?”

He simply smiles in response, a small, secretive gesture that seems somehow sad. The Doctor’s eyes break from hers, falling back to her side, where his hands continue their work. He’s almost devout in the way he touches her, every stroke careful and precise, his features focused and tender. Sometimes when she looks at him, it’s as if everything she’s ever wanted to know is written across the contours of his face, her future laid bare in a language she can’t quite read. It’s as if it’s all right in front of her, the truth like pieces of a half-finished puzzle scattered across the floor. The Doctor’s gentle hands dab at a particularly nasty burn and as River winces, it’s never been more obvious that she’s a time traveler, not a fortune teller. She can’t see the future in the palm of her hand, but there’s no forgetting where she’s been, evidence of it written in the scars littered across her body like braille.

“So do you have any other hobbies?” he asks, answering her question with another. “You know, besides homicide?”

River relaxes in spite of her iron will, surprising herself with the puff of laughter that bubbles from her lips.  "You’re really not very good at small talk, are you?“

The Doctor chuckles, and she can’t help but notice how the corner of his eyes crease when he smiles. "What gave me away?”

“Homicide is more of a third date conversation.” River shrugs, and the Doctor lets out a knowing hum, never looking up from his work.

“You and I have never really done things the ordinary way.”

The air between them stills again, silence settling like dust as she watches him work, studying his hands. He’s using that tone again, the one he’d used in Berlin when talking about his friend River Song. It almost feels intrusive, like she’s listening to something she shouldn’t, something far too intimate for the ears of an outsider like herself. There’s such reverence in his voice, as if the woman he speaks of is a legend and an angel and a lover all rolled into one. His eyes tell such stories, his smile so twisted with secrets that she almost wants to believe that the woman is her. 

But then her eyes linger on the hollow of his throat and her head is suddenly filled with information she doesn’t ever recall learning. Things like how to make a bomb out of household cleaning supplies or exactly how hard to strike to send one’s kidneys into shock. Decades of conditioning are weaved through layer upon layer of her mind, fear and hatred laced tightly within her being, treacherous stories of him pumped through her veins like a life source. It’s impossible to tell where she ends and blind instinct begins. Comforting though it may be, she knows that the tenderness in his hands and the softness of his voice don’t do a damn thing when it comes to quelling the instincts inside her.

“You’re not safe around me.” She means it as a warning, but it comes out as a whisper, an apology ghosting through the air waves.

The Doctor inhales deep, swallowing her confession and sighing out blind forgiveness. “I trust you,” is all he says in return, a casual shrug in his shoulders despite the undeniable sentiment behind his voice.

She wonders if he’s noticed, the way he talks about her as if she’s some great and terrible thing, as if she’s meant for glory and greatness. She wonders if it would kill him to know it’s exactly how her owners used to speak of her. As if to betray his confession, her eyes rake over him, subconsciously counting twelve different ways she could immobilize him without leaving her seat.

She has to look away, banishing the thoughts she can’t control. When she shuts her eyes, she sees their faces, the ones that take her in the night. She remembers their hands on her skin and the way her limbs tingle as if they’re asleep. She remembers the absence of feeling, of squeezing pressure holding her prisoner. But when she opens her eyes again, they’re gone. She’s left with nothing but smoke and shadows, choking on stale air and monsters that never existed at all. Sometimes she sees red, on the wall and her hands. Sometimes she sees a contorted creature leaking on the floor. She’s hesitant to call it bleeding. What they secrete doesn’t look much like blood. It’s tar-like and black as the suits they don.

She touched it once, as she stood over a roomful of corpses. She took back what was hers and told herself their deaths made her free. She didn’t feel free. She didn’t feel much of anything. Her fingers scraped over the smoking hole in the creatures chest only to find it has no consistency at all, the secretion as absent of feeling as the hands that used to hold her down. But his hands are warm and sure, they tether her to now even as her fractured mind tries to scatter into the wind.

“I killed some of them,“ she confesses, and she doesn’t know how or when or why, but the memory of it dances on the fringes of her mind like a dream she can almost remember.

When she gets the chance, she slaughters the ones that take her, whoever they are. And he must know, must see straight through her, because all he does is nod in understanding. He neither judges nor justifies, and she almost wishes that he would, that someone would make black and white out of a world turned grey. There’s a taste in her mouth, a metallic sting that’s too bitter to be blood. She wonders if this is what guilt feels like, if this new skin is reviving the conscience that was beaten out of her all those years ago.

Some assassin she is, being tended to by the hands of the man she was meant to murder. There are tears trapped behind her green eyes, her hands clenched into fists to keep from trembling or lashing out like the wounded creature she is. She can’t help but wonder how she manages it, being both the wolf and the sheep. She must be light years away from the woman he speaks of, the one who shares her face but is so much stronger than her.

“What must you think of me?” River asks, and it isn’t a question at all. It’s self-deprecation wrapped in a laugh that tastes bitter as it rolls off her tongue. Words like pathetic and pitiful and damaged hang in the air, clouded by the tears just begging to stream down her dirt coated cheeks.

The Doctor abandons his work, taking a seat on the counter beside her, his hand entwining with hers. There’s still dirt and mud and blood under her nails. He doesn’t seem to care about that, his eyes far more concerned about the blisters on her skin. This new body doesn’t have the callouses yet. A down side of regeneration, she supposes. She’ll have to break it in, have to kill her nerve endings all over again. When he’s done with his analysis, his eyes find hers. They’re soft and kind, hazel wells so deep she could easily drown. His free hand lifts to find her cheek and River fights the urge to flinch, to pull away from such a gentle touch. Careful fingers graze her skin as he brushes a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his voice like a promise as he says, “I think you are beautiful.”

“I’m covered in blood,” is all the argument she can form. It’s a statement and a protest and a challenge, but all he does is shrug, a crooked twist in his lips.

“Aren’t we all?”


	5. Tuck + children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He passes the time with Handles, but his true solace is the children, reliving animated tales for bed time stories and acting out improbable victories. He tells them of his favorites, of a shop girl who made him remember how to smile, of the Ood and the songs they sing for a woman who can’t ever remember, of a boy who waited by a box for two thousand years. He tells them of Susan and Sara Jane and Martha. And on very special nights, when the space ships that dart across the sky remind him too much of shooting stars, he tells them of River Song.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: Tuck + children

The first few decades aren’t so bad. He fights monsters and fixes toys and finds far more satisfaction in sitting still than he ever thought possible. But it doesn’t tame the itch to explore or quell the wanderlust still rich in his veins. The stillness makes his legs ache. The cold slowly extinguishing the burning need to run, to _go go go_ and never look back. He isn’t too proud to say he misses it, that it’s best his TARDIS is gone. Some nights he isn’t sure he’d have the strength to stay. 

The night sky still calls to him, but he’s grown accustom to the cold and the clouds and the snow and the quiet that settle eternally on the town of Christmas like a blanket. It wasn’t all that long ago that he locked himself away in his ship, determined to keep the universe at bay. Funny how the more things change, the more they stay the same. 

He passes the time with Handles, but his true solace is the children, reliving animated tales for bed time stories and acting out improbable victories. He tells them of his favorites, of a shop girl who made him remember how to smile, of the Ood and the songs they sing for a woman who can’t ever remember, of a boy who waited by a box for two thousand years. He tells them of Susan and Sara Jane and Martha. And on very special nights, when the space ships that dart across the sky remind him too much of shooting stars, he tells them of River Song. 

He tells them of the woman who beguiles and bewilders him to no end, how she brought the best kind of trouble with her wherever she went and took a tiny piece of his hearts with her whenever she left. And the more stories he tells, the more curious the children are. They ask him questions like, “Where is she now and how did you meet?”

And he always offers them the saddest of smiles because, “We met in a Library,” he confesses. “Or a cornfield, depending how you look at it.“

"Did you love her?” A small voice asks, and the Doctor swallows back the words that catch in his throat because, even now, his hearts can’t bear the memory of her without wanting to unravel half the universe.

He never answers them. he doesn’t have to, because children always know, don’t they? To them, love and magic are things that never need explaining.

 

Years pass and pass and pass. Houses are built and treaties are made and children grow older. New faces, eager and bright, fill the stone floor of his tower. They love to hear his fairy tales of wizards and Romans and kisses that can save all reality. They love to draw, the flickering sea of fresh faces. He keeps every picture. A reminder of why he needs to stay. 

Of course, he has other reminders too. 

The sharp chime of bells tells him they’re at it again- the Sontarans or the Cybermen or the Slitheen, any of them, all of them. It hardly matters. He is still the Doctor and he’s prepared for anything. Except perhaps the quiet fog that’s descended over the sleepy town. There’s a shadow in the mist, not a Dalek or a robot, the movements are too fluid. Shadows twist and creep as snow crunches under steadily marching feet. But it isn’t like the Judoon, there’s a cadence to the steps, rhythm that’s almost familiar. It isn’t until the sway of her hips comes in to view that he allows hope to flutter inside his chest.

“River.” He breathes her name like it’s the answer to a prayer. He’d think she were a ghost if not for the way frosty air has kissed her cheeks rosy and the hot breath making clouds around her mouth.

The fog around his wife clears and the Doctor finds himself blinking hard, wondering if this is evidence he’s finally gone mad until a sultry voice says, “Hello sweetie.“

She stays, delighting the children with her stories too, some he knows by heart and others he wishes he knew better. She tells them how she dug up the lost temple of the Fae and the naughty way she lost it in the first place. She tells them how she taught her father to dance so he would have the courage to take her mother on their first date. She tells them of the world he’s giving up to keep them all safe. She holds them all captive with her tongue as she describes red sky and blue grasses and silver trees like she’s seen them every day of her life. He’s told her enough stories and shared enough memories for her to know every finite detail. But she’ll never see it with her own eyes, not as long as he bites his tongue to save this town. 

A small girl hops into River’s lap, parting his wife’s mad curls to whisper in her ear. River throws her head back and laughs before leaning in to join her co-conspirator in the sharing of softly spoken secrets. It never fails to awe him, the wealth of unfailing love his wife holds in her hearts. This town is the reason she was stolen, these unknowing people the reason she’ll never see her Gallifreyan home. And yet she lets them into her hearts like there’s room enough to spare, like it wont hurt when they grow up and grow old and her face stays ever the same. 

The girl in River’s lap giggles as she points to a star in the night sky, no doubt spinning a tale of how she bested some great and terrible being. She’s a little unorthodox, his wife, impossible and flirtatious beyond reason and entirely incorrigible, but he can’t help but think that she would have made a fantastic mum. And who knows, maybe somewhere out there, before him or after him or during the years that passed between them, maybe she already is. Maybe when she isn’t spending her nights him or torturing Stormcage guards, maybe she’s walking a curly headed little girl or boy to school. Maybe she travels the stars while they’re at piano practice and pops back in with time enough to make the tea.

The Doctor pushes the thought away, settling in next to her by the fire. The children look up at him expectantly, their sweet doe eyes patiently waiting for another story. River’s watching him, too, the little girl still tucked into her chest, and he thinks that maybe he could do this after all. Maybe with River here, he could get by with domesticity. He could fight monster by day and fold laundry by night. Maybe with River here, a few decades in the dark would be a blessing.


	6. Slitting + throat

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> River rolls her eyes, her protests falling from her tongue in an exasperated huff. “If you’re going to heckle the entire time, I’m not watching this movie with you.”
> 
> The Scotsman beside her scoffs. “Stone angels slitting people’s throats. It’s inaccurate. And worse, it’s untidy.”
> 
> “It’s a horror movie sweetie,” River chides. “Cleanliness isn’t exactly what they were aiming for.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: slitting + throat

River rolls her eyes, her protests falling from her tongue in an exasperated huff. “If you’re going to heckle the entire time, I’m not watching this movie with you.”

The Scotsman beside her scoffs. “Stone angels slitting people’s throats. It’s inaccurate. And worse, it’s untidy.”

“It’s a horror movie sweetie,” River chides. “Cleanliness isn’t exactly what they were aiming for.”

The man beside her grumbles but offers no further protests about Aplan Temples or who may or may not have soniced someone on a rocky beach. He surrenders, exhaling a breath that sounds an awful lot like ‘temptress’ as he finally relaxes enough for River to settle into his side. She’s only just getting comfortable again when, “And what’s with this idiot? Running off on his own in the middle of a maze of death and prodding at glowing holes on the wall.”

“Darling,” River deadpans. “That’s you. You did those things. 

“Bow tie was an idiot. You’d think they’d have Hollywooded me up a bit.”

“You mean like they did me?” River squeaks, gesturing to the atrocious outfit they put her in. A skin tight prison shirt and cutoff camo shorts, and honestly, “A girl likes to leave something to the imagination.”

Her husband eyes the scantily clad actress, lips curling distastefully. “They got your hair all wrong.” 

That fallacy seems to be his biggest complaint. Well, that and everything that comes out of the actor playing him’s mouth. Honestly, how a person can manage to be so vain and so self loathing simultaneously is beyond her. 

On the screen before her, the would be thems are huddled together in the forest. A redheaded girl is sprawled across a rock like a damsel while the two leads and a man in military dress argue about the best escape plan. The actress playing her can’t seem to decide where to look, her eyes snapping between the two men like she’s watching a tennis match. River’s about to scoff again when-

“At least they got one thing right,” her husband starts, and River tears her eyes from the ridiculous film to meet her husband’s gaze.

“What’s that?” She asks, watching as a smirk slowly curls the Doctor’s cheeks. 

“Bow tie was definitely the jealous type.”

“Oh and you’re not, I suppose?”

“Course not,” he preens. “I’ve aged like a fine wine.”

“More like sour grapes,” she teases running affectionate fingers through his salt and pepper hair.

The Doctors eyes narrow, pulling her to him possessively, the movie forgotten as he begins to speckle kisses along her neck and jaw. He gives a small nip for her cheeky comment and River answers him with a delighted hum.

“If you’re trying to start something, you’d better hurry.”

“Why’s that,” he murmurs into her throat. “You expecting company?”

“Only my husband,” River grins, “he gets ever so jealous.”


	7. Bake + love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So what you’re saying is, we’re going to be baked alive?” River arches her brow, disgruntled hands resting on her hips because when she said she preferred her holidays with a bit of sun, the heart of a dying star wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.
> 
> “Yes, well,” the Doctor corrects, giving a shrug as he tucks his hands in the pockets of his long brown trench coat. “But on the bright side, we’ll be perfectly safe for another eight and a half minutes.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: bake + love

“So what you’re saying is, we’re going to be baked alive?” River arches her brow, disgruntled hands resting on her hips because when she said she preferred her holidays with a bit of sun, the heart of a dying star wasn’t exactly what she had in mind.

“Yes, well,” the Doctor corrects, giving a shrug as he tucks his hands in the pockets of his long brown trench coat. “But on the bright side, we’ll be perfectly safe for another eight and a half minutes.”

“In that case, I’ll put the kettle on, shall I?”

“Haven’t got a kettle,” he dismisses her, missing her sarcasm entirely. This face is always doing that, always missing her little jokes and jabs, too busy looking anywhere but at her to take notice of her teasing tone.

The lithe man before her paces the room, sand shoes tripping over themselves as he tugs at his spiky brown hair. He’s muttering to himself about all the things they don’t have and the resources he wishes he could use, and River is about to scold him about being emotional, about how he needs to be focusing on the now and the things they do have, when-

“River, take off your bra!” he shouts, wide eyes elated, and River bites back a smirk.

“I admire your enthusiasm, sweetie, but this is hardly the time.“

He flushes, pretty cheeks turning pink as he corrects, “Not like that! I’m going to use the underwire to reconnect the teleport interface.”

The Doctor wastes no time, skipping to the console, already opening panels and ripping out wires. He’s all enthusiasm and eager fingers, and River drinks in the sight of him with shameless eyes as he rushes to impress her with a daring escape.

“It’s a nasty, cheap fix,” he explains, River’s insides warming at the cadence of his hurried tone, because she always did love it when he talked dirty. “Downright criminal, if you ask me. It won’t be easy, and the ride will most certainly be rough, dangerous even. Think you can handle it, Professor?”

Concerned brown eyes flick to her and River makes no attempts to hide her grin as she reaches behind her, unclasping her bra. “I’m sure I can manage.”


	8. Breathe + baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> River dabs a cloth over the cut on her husband’s cheek, causing him to hiss and yank away as if she’d stabbed him.
> 
> “Quit being a baby,” she scolds. “It’s antiseptic, not acid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: breathe + baby

River dabs a cloth over the cut on her husband’s cheek, causing him to hiss and yank away as if she’d stabbed him.

“Quit being a baby,” she scolds. “It’s antiseptic, not acid.”

The man-child before her pouts, bottom lip jutting out and brow furrowing as he whines, “It hurts.”

“Well maybe the next time a sentient tree asks you not to climb it, you should listen.” She dabs once again at her husband’s sharp cheek, cleaning the wound. He hisses under her soft touch and River fights the urge to roll her eyes, because for a man who’s died a dozen or so times, he sure is making quite a fuss over a glorified paper cut.

“I was trying to get you a flower,” he grumbles, his pout only deepening.

River has to bite her tongue to keep from laughing at his expense. He always did have a way of making her feel sorry for him, especially when he’s being a sentimental idiot. She takes pity on him, setting the cloth aside to cup his chin with her thumb and forefinger. She turns his cheek to get a better look at the cut, blowing softly, cool breath ghosting across fevered skin.

“Kiss me better?” he requests, the pout on his face cracking into a cheeky smirk. River shakes her head fondly, eyes rolling even as she’s helpless but to lean in, dropping a peck to his brow.

“How’s that?” she asks softly, and the Doctor blinks up at her with puppy dog eyes as sweet as the flower he tried to steal and as pure as the air that they breathe.

He grins back at her as if he’d never been hurt at all and answers, “Never better.”


	9. Dancing + a dress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yet another dress goes flying across the room and River lets out a long suffering sigh. “Sweetie, just pick something, please. We’re going to be late.” 
> 
> A thud echoes from deep within the wardrobe, shortly followed by the Doctor’s northern voice. “Would that I could, love,” her wife complains. “But nothing fits.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: Dancing + a dress

Yet another dress goes flying across the room and River lets out a long suffering sigh. “Sweetie, just pick something, please. We’re going to be late.” 

A thud echoes from deep within the wardrobe, shortly followed by the Doctor’s northern voice. “Would that I could, love,” her wife complains. “But nothing fits.” 

River can practically see the pout pinching the Doctor’s new baby face. With a roll of her eyes, she makes her way to the wardrobe, a curious gaze seeking out narrow shoulders and short blond hair. Green eyes rake over pale skin, appreciating a rather glorious lack of underthings this new body seems so averse to. River’s eyes have just traveled back to her wife’s face in time to see her toss another gown over her shoulder, turning to River with a frown. 

“I’m not like you,” she huffs out, hands gesticulating wildly in front of her as she mimes the curves of an hourglass. “This bodies all weird.” 

Pale arms fold over her naked chest and River lets her eyes wander, taking in the sight. “No,” she hums, gliding forward as she steps into the closet. “You’re not like me.” 

River comes to a stop before her wife, her manicured fingers brushing back an unruly lock of blond hair. Her wife blinks up at her with discouraged eyes and lashes that have never seen mascara. River presses a kiss to the Doctor’s cheek, her lipstick staining foundation free skin as she reaches past her wife’s head.

“So don’t dress like me,” River purrs, voice soft and sweet as fingers close around a slender three piece suit. She pulls the hanger from the shelf, pressing it softly into her wife’s cross arms. “Dress like you.”

The Doctor grins up at her, flashing that bright, beaming smile this face seams to wear so well. Her wife gazes up at her as if she hung the moon and River would be a liar if she said the affection in other woman’s eyes didn’t make her hearts flutter. Her wife’s brilliant grin softens into something more mischievous, an echo of all her other selves as she cheekily asks, “Should I wear a hat, too?” 

River chuckles, throaty and warm as she plucks a top hat from the nearest rack and plops it on her wife’s head. “Darling, I wouldn’t let you take me dancing if you didn’t.”


	10. Trust + mirror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low enough to give her shivers. 
> 
> Yes, her traitorous hearts sing even as stubborn lips answer, “No.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: trust + mirror

“Do you trust me?” he asks, voice low enough to give her shivers. 

 _Yes_ , her traitorous hearts sing even as stubborn lips answer, “No.”

The Doctor chuckles like he knows, privy to some secret she might one day learn. “Then why are you still here?” he challenges and River’s lips part before they even know what lies they’ll spin.

“Are you asking me to go?” she counters, doing her best to remain detached and unreadable.

“Never,” he breathes, stepping forward as if the very thought of space between them is offensive. River struggles to keep her breaths even as he moves closer, lifting a hand as if he means to drag the back of his knuckles across her cheek. She can’t help but wonder if he has done already or will do, one day, back when he was younger, in the days she hasn’t yet lived.

He resists whatever temptation came over him, scrubbing his hand over his face instead, fingers rubbing at his chin as his tongue moistens his lips in contemplation. River’s eyes track the movement, breathing in pheromones and vortex and history that’s yet to be decided and somehow already written. She wonders what he sees in her, if the guarded look in her eyes is a mirror of how his own once looked back before he hoarded all the answers the way dragons do gold. She wonders if he fought it the way she is, if he’ll lie just to see how well she truly knows him, if he’ll push her away simply because he knows she’ll always come back.

“You shouldn’t trust me either, you know,” she whispers the secret like a warning, the palm of her hand gravitating to his chest. It’s an innocent touch, barely pressure enough to feel his racing hearts. It keeps him at bay while tethering him to her, and the Doctor swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing in his throat.

“Perhaps not,” he shrugs, eyes on his own hands as he runs his knuckles up and down her biceps. The answering touch is soft, gentle, matching her own advances but never exceeding. The small contact makes her pulse quicken, acutely aware of the thumping of his hearts beneath her palm. 

It shouldn’t feel this good, the goosebumps blooming up her arms in the wake of his touch. Something about him makes every atom in her body come to life, drawn to him by some unseen force. She fears she already knows the answer to question even as her lips form the words, “Then why do you?”

A smile tugs at the corner of his mouth, like he’s lost to a memory. River’s fingers flex against his chest, her insides suddenly burning with the need to know what it is. But rather than spill his secrets, the subtle movement wakes him from his daydream, his eyes drifting to the palm resting on his chest as he confesses, “You’ll find out soon enough.”

It isn’t the answer she wanted, and the need to know, to learn his secrets one way or another, demands her free hand to slide up behind his neck. Before she knows it, she’s pulling him in for a kiss. It isn’t the all consuming passion she imagined it would be. It’s slow, methodical, tentative, their lips brushing in a soft flutter. His hands still, fingers curling weightlessly around her upper arms. He doesn’t pull her closer or try to push her away. He simply waits, their breath mingling, hot and heady, as timelines curl and twist between them.

River is the one to pull back, one hand still curling into his hair as the other stays firmly planted on his chest. His remain as they are, fingers wrapped tenderly around on her biceps like he’s scared to let go, barely touching her and somehow fixing her in place. It’s only when her hand slides lower, just a fraction, that his careful demeanor cracks. His stomach tightens beneath curious fingers, and green eyes flick up to find him studying her. His breathing is suspiciously even, calculated, shallow, like he’s waiting for something, to see what she’ll do next. He swallows and her eyes drop to his throat and bow tie and all those buttons concealing his scrawny chest. Her nails scratch at the fabric of his shirt and he tenses further, lean and sharp beneath her hand.

Her nails drag over to the nearest button, circling it with a finger just to make him shiver. Her finger slides lower, clicking over the next button and then the next, past his belly button and lower, inching slowly downward, suddenly curious, compelled to unravel his mysteries, to see what he looks like beneath these silly clothes, to hear what his gasping breathes sound like when he’s not holding back.

His body visibly quivers when she reaches the top of his trousers, nail picking absentmindedly along the waistband. But when she reaches for the button, the Doctor catches her wrist. She looks up at him, finding his jaw tight, eyes ancient and dark. In that moment he is every bit the Oncoming Storm she was warned about. He is the ageless God who has lived too long, who has seen and done far more than any soul should. He is the monster she was warned about and the fairy tale wizard who always saves the day. There are shadows in his eyes that speak of the past and the future, a depth to his smile that tempts her with adventure even as it promises pain. He looks like a choice the universe made for her, like falling for him is a fixed thing that reverberates down in her bones. The pull toward him is overwhelming, and the suffocating weight of it makes revolt rise like bile on the back of River’s tongue.

“I’m not in love with you,” she says urgently, her mouth still inches from his, her nails digging into the back of his neck, holding him in place even as her words push him away.

The Doctor stares back at her, a bit dizzy, a bit breathless, as he exhales the words, “I know.”

There’s sentiment in his voice, the likes of which she never thought she’d hear from a man such as him. Nostalgic and sad, and it makes her shoulders stiffen with a fear unlike anything the Madame prepared her for. His eyes remain locked on hers, the very air they breathe heavy, and in the stillness, she can see so much more than she ever really wanted to. She sees want and heartache and desperation. She sees longing and trust and patience. She sees the part of him that knows her, that knows why she needed him to hear what she’d said, that needs him to know that she isn’t his, not yet. She sees the part of him that needs her in any form he can get. She sees devotion and that unconditional word that she refuses to name.

But beyond that, she sees a darkness in him, too. The sins and secrets in his hazel eyes are an echo of her own, and something inside her breaks. Or maybe one of the broken bits brings itself back together. Whatever is it, when she pushes her lips back to his, she realizes she doesn’t love him, but she wants to. 


	11. Hugging + sigh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He rolls to the side, both their chests heaving as he twists his chin to face her. “Well, what do you think now?”
> 
> And the smirk on this Scottish mouth must look entirely too smug because River’s eyes flick over his naked body, a throaty, breathless little chuckle bubbling from his wife’s lips as she says, “It’ll do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: hugging + sigh

He rolls to the side, both their chests heaving as he twists his chin to face her. “Well, what do you think now?”

And the smirk on this Scottish mouth must look entirely too smug because River’s eyes flick over his naked body, a throaty, breathless little chuckle bubbling from his wife’s lips as she says, “It’ll do.”

The Doctor snorts, leaning up on his elbow to better glare at his wife. “It’ll do?” he parrots, incredulity dripping in his tone, because the noises his wife just made didn’t come from the tongue of a half-satisfied woman.

The vixen before him offers no apologies, only invitations written in wanton eyes as she turns to face him, her index finger dragging from his sternum to his pelvis like a promise. A shimmer of sweat makes her golden skin glow and she only sounds all the more irresistible as she coos, “I could be persuaded to give a second opinion.”

“Generous of you,” he rumbles, snatching up his wife’s teasing fingers and bringing the vexing digits to his lips. “And when would you like to give the merchandise another inspection?”

An impish grin steals River’s cheeks, green eyes locked on his mouth as it brushes against her knuckles. “I’m available now,” she offers, voice dropping low in that husky way she knows he likes.

The Doctor shivers at the sound of it, a soft flame sparking in his sated body. Insistent hands tugs her closer, hugging her to him and burying his face in her curls. River smirks into his neck, arms and legs wrapping around him possessively. With her chest pressed firmly against his, he thinks to himself that he’ll never need the sun again, that the warmth of her alone could sustain him for the rest of his days.

“What’s the consensus, Professor?” he asks, fingertips tracing lazily along her spine. “Think this body will meet your standards?”

River exhales into his skin, a contemplative sound, and the Doctor swears that he could live off the content little sigh that escapes her lips as she whispers, “I think this might be your best one yet.”


	12. laughing + scanner

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He’s been ill for a week. Nothing tastes as it should anymore, even biscuits have lost their appeal. His stomach has revolted against him, nauseas for no reason at all, sick at the mere mention of fish fingers. But it wasn’t until this morning, when he woke up with a golf-ball sized growth on his abdomen that he finally agreed to let Rory give him a checkup.
> 
> The Roman is currently sat before him, worried eyes glued to the scanner as he presses a stethoscope over the area in question. Whatever he finds makes Rory’s face pale, and the Doctor shifts in his seat, waiting.
> 
> “Doctor,” Rory starts, as hesitant as he is bewildered. “I think you might be pregnant.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing challenge: laughing + scanner
> 
> mpreg, but not really. 11 is just an idiot. This is crack and I'm sorry.

He’s been ill for a week. Nothing tastes as it should anymore, even biscuits have lost their appeal. His stomach has revolted against him, nauseas for no reason at all, sick at the mere mention of fish fingers. But it wasn’t until this morning, when he woke up with a golf-ball sized growth on his abdomen that he finally agreed to let Rory give him a checkup.

The Roman is currently sat before him, worried eyes glued to the scanner as he presses a stethoscope over the area in question. Whatever he finds makes Rory’s face pale, and the Doctor shifts in his seat, waiting.

“Doctor,” Rory starts, as hesitant as he is bewildered. “I think you might be pregnant.”

Amy cracks first, her brash, Scottish cackle reverberating off the TARDIS walls. River holds her composure suitably better, biting back a smile as the Doctor bolts upright.

“That’s impossible!” He protests. “I don’t even have a uterus. I can’t be-“ his words die on his tongue as he whips the scanner around to get a better look.  A mass sits in his intestinal tract, a parasitic blob wiggling within an egg-like plasma as the Doctor gapes, “I’m pregnant.”

Worried eyes snap to his wife, seeking confirmation or comfort, but finding only laughing eyes. “Sweetie, have you been flirting with the local fauna again?”

His traitorous wife’s question only fuels Amelia’s laughter, tears sliding down her rounded cheeks.

“River!” he hisses. “This is serious! I’ve been infected!”

“Oi,” Amy joins in, somehow managing to speak through her boisterous laughter. “That’s no way to talk about your little bundle of joy!”

Even the Roman betrays him, a smile cracking through his façade of professionalism. The Doctor scowls at all his Ponds, eyes narrowing on the redhead, because if that’s how she wants to play it, “You realize this makes you a grandmother.”

His best friend sobers instantly, giggles lodging in her throat as River throws her hands up in protest. “Don’t bring me into this. I’m not it’s mother. This is between you and whatever parasitic bush you let prick you.”

Rory gives him a pat on the knee but there’s hardly any sympathy in his tone at all when he says, “You should really be more careful about what pollen you eat.”

“It was a gift!” The Doctor squeaks in defense. “What was I supposed to do? Turn it down?”

“ _Yes!_ ” They all chime in unison, leaving him no choice but to huff.

“You lot are no help at all.”

River takes pity on him, sashaying forward to kiss the wrinkles from his brow. The Doctor’s shoulders relax, finally getting a hint of sympathy when he sees his wife turn to face her parents.

“So,” she smiles. “Who fancies a drink?”

Amy’s already headed for the coat rack as Rory mutters something under his breath that sounds like  _‘dear god please,’_ and the Doctor’s jaw flies open in outrage.

“What about me?!” he whines.

“You’ve got a bun in the oven,” Amy quips, red scarf wrapping around her neck.

“Yes, Sweetie,” River adds. “It would really be very irresponsible for you to come.”

“And what do you expect me to do while you’re gone?” he asks, indignant arms folding across his chest. The pair is half way out the door already, and he has half a mind to strand them here when Rory turns to him, offering a sympathetic shrug.

“Push?” The Roman suggests, causing both women to throw their heads back and laugh.

The Ponds slip out the door, leaving him to gape at the place his former friends had been standing. His stomach churns and the Doctor glances down at the growth on his abdomen, sighing.  _It’s hard to be a single parent._


	13. Pacing + tea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It’s half three in the morning when he hears the TARDIS land, when his wife creeps in through the front door like a teenager past her curfew, tip-toeing inside and shutting it quietly. She mustn’t notice the kitchen light is on, because River visibly startles when she turns around to find him waiting for at the kitchen table.
> 
> "Darling,“ she all but gasps, caught off guard. "What are you doing up?”
> 
> “I could ask you the same,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light even as anxious fingers tap against the wooden table. The tea before him has long since gone cold, and River’s eyes roam over him carefully, shoulders stiffening like they always do when she goes on the defensive. His wife stands a little taller, her jaw a little tighter, and he wishes that she wouldn’t, that she didn’t feel the need to tread around him as if he were a snake in the grass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing challenge: pacing + Tea

It’s half three in the morning when he hears the TARDIS land, when his wife creeps in through the front door like a teenager past her curfew, tip-toeing inside and shutting it quietly. She mustn’t notice the kitchen light is on, because River visibly startles when she turns around to find him waiting for at the kitchen table.

 "Darling,“ she all but gasps, caught off guard. "What are you doing up?”

“I could ask you the same,” he counters, trying to keep his voice light even as anxious fingers tap against the wooden table. The tea before him has long since gone cold, and River’s eyes roam over him carefully, shoulders stiffening like they always do when she goes on the defensive. His wife stands a little taller, her jaw a little tighter, and he wishes that she wouldn’t, that she didn’t feel the need to tread around him as if he were a snake in the grass.

“I took the TARDIS out for a spin,” she explains, an intentional levity to her voice, keeping back the storm that is his anger for as long as she can. “You know how the Old Girl gets when she’s still for too long.”

He blanches slightly, his eyes dropping to the rim of his tea cup in hopes that she won’t see the way her words settle like a barb between his hearts. “It’s only been a week, River,” he states, soft and sad, doubt spreading through his insides like a pernicious weed. “Are you both bored of me already?”

She doesn’t speak, and with her silence comes every fear he’s done his best to bury. He over shot; he went too big. Twenty-four years is far too long for a woman like her to want to be cooped up with an old fool like him. He should have known better than to cage River Song under the guise of domestic bliss.

“Doctor,” a quiet voice shakes the stillness from the room. When his gaze drifts back up to find her, he’s met with wary eyes and a tentative tone. “You think I’m bored of you?”

He shrugs, a flippant hand lifting as he leans back in his chair, because what is he supposed to think when she sneaks out for joy rides in the middle of the night? “I knew sitting still wasn’t exactly either of our styles, but I had hoped the novelty would have lasted longer than a few days.”

"You’re angry with me,” she says hesitantly, and the Doctor scoffs, springing from his seat to pace the room.

She isn’t wrong. Frustration and hurt, and yes, anger too, are brewing in his chest because this was supposed to be their time, precious time, and she… she just…”You left,” he snaps, words harsher than he means them to be because, “One hour and forty-three minutes squandered.”

“Where do you think I went?“ River asks, a practiced patience in her tone.  

The Doctor sighs through his nose, trying not to blame her for assumptions he had made. After all, she never promised him all night, only little time. "I don’t really care where you went,” he grumbles. “But seeing as I came here to be with you, it would have been nice to have at least been invited.”

“I didn’t think you’d notice I was gone.” Green eyes cast downward and maybe it’s the sadness in them that makes his blood boil. Maybe it’s her continued surprise that he cares that makes guilt bubble over into a harsh tone.

“Of course I did,” he hisses, his left hand flexing, the ring on his finger scorching him like a brand.

River studies his movements like this new body is a language she’s determined to learn. She doesn’t yet know what to make of his even tone and easy explanations. His wife remains guarded, waiting for the bottom to drop out, for the thunder to precede the storm. It takes him longer than it should to realize that she’s hesitant because she’s still playing by the rules set by his younger, angrier self, the one that lashed out at the first sign of trouble, that shut down the moment she got to close.

He’s deliberately softer when he speaks next, no games or traps or manipulations, only honesty on his tongue as he says, “Just, next time you fancy getting off this rock, please, can I come with you?”

“No,” River breathes, jaw slack, and the Doctor feels his hearts sink to the pit of his stomach.

“Oh,” he starts, doing his best to hide the disappointment in his eyes. He doesn’t want to push her away, and if the occasional break from him is what she needs to convince her to stay then, “Alright. I underst-“

"Not like that, Doctor,” River interrupts, the hint of a laugh on her lips. “I mean you can’t come because you’re already there. It’s you I’m going to see.”

His bushy brows nearly fly off his forehead, relief and surprise and just a dash of jealousy as he blurts, “Which face?”

River rolls her eyes, finally closing the distance between them to swat at his arm. “This one, you daft old man.”

His insides glow to see the way she bites back a smile, but he still doesn’t know, “Why would you do that when I’m right here?”

“Because,” his wife answers, running her fingers through his wild, worry tousled hair. “Tonight isn’t enough. I wanted to make sure there was more, for you, after I-”

“River,” he silences her then, because he can’t bear to think about how that sentence will end. He isn’t sure what words should follow, what he’ll say when the time comes. But for now all he can do is pull her to him to keep time from slipping away, smiling around the words, “That’s cheating.”

He feels her lips curl against his chest, her words muted by the way she speaks into his cotton shirt. “It was supposed to be a surprise.”

“Leave it to me to spoil your plans,” he chuckles, breathing in the smell of her hair. She wears vortex and trouble and days yet to come like a perfume, and he really should have known that River would find a way to siphon more time, to speckle the gift of her presence across his future timeline like gold dust. The scent of her soothes the unease in his bones and the Doctor exhales any lingering doubts as he adds, “I’m sorry I got upset.”

River pulls back just enough to meet his eyes, her gaze heavy and green eyes glossy. “I wouldn’t waste this, Doctor.”

Soft hands that are still coated in a fine layer of debris frame his cheeks, thumbs stroking his weathered skin like a promise. The Doctor smiles down at his wife like the warmth of her touch is all the sunlight he’ll ever need. “Next time, tell me when you plan on leaving me for me. We’ll coordinate, time it so it’s like you’re never gone at all.”

"I never knew you were so clingy,” River teases, and the Doctor arches a dubious brow.

“Is that a problem?”

The grin on River’s cheeks spreads like wildfire, eyes sparking with an infectious amount of mischief as she pulls him in for a kiss. It’s hypnotic and slow, her curious tongue teasing at his lips. She invites him in only to pull away, making him chase her until he’s drunk on the taste on her mouth. It’s only when she breaks the kiss, when he blinks down at her with dazed eyes that he realizes she never answered his question. He licks at his lips, testing for poison, because it wouldn’t be the first time she drugged a husband for being annoying. Finding none, he allows his eyes to settle on his wife’s sinful mouth.

“On the contrary,” an inviting voice coos. River smirks like the sphinx she is, slipping out of his arms and stepping backwards toward the door. The look in her eyes compels him to follow, a falling star caught in her gravity as his wife purrs, “I’m counting on it.”


	14. New face. New rules.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> River Song is pressed against the ornately decorated wall of the nicest restaurant in the galaxy, the Darilllum sun long set, with nothing but stars as their witness, and he can’t for the life of him figure out what comes next. Well, he can. But how? Her lips are full and pink and parted on a question that his own mouth longs to answer. Green eyes pierce into him like daggers, so open and eager and unsure. She’s uncertain of what he’ll do next, of why he’s not snogging her senseless when one of his hands has her firmly by the hip, pressing her back into a cushion of petals. His other hand frames her cheek, her skin warm against his palm. She’s flushed, from the wine, yes, but from the promise of him, too. She all but told him so over dessert, not with words but with how her bashful eyes kept dragging across his throat. Subconscious or no, she licked her lips every time her gaze lingered too long on his fidgeting fingers. She used to give Bow Tie the same hungry stare. She’d make a blushing fool of him with her eyes alone, and when she got him alone, she’d put his fingers to her lips and do things that made him flush all over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorta nsfw. Writing Prompt: I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth

It always ends like this, or rather, it always used to end like this. He’d plan a nice dinner, River seduced the staff, one of them would say something to offend a galactic economic super power, and before they knew it, they’d be running for their lives. They ran and they bickered and they saved the day, and when they stumbled back into the TARDIS, his lips always found hers with exceptional ease. Bow Tie’s wiry arms pulled her close, and River would bury her hands in his hair, letting out a pleased little hum when his tongue would sweep across her bottom lip.

But this time, they seem to have skipped all that. A new face means new rules, because they went from dinner to dessert with no danger at all. They finished a bottle of wine without the brandishing of weapons of any kind. They even danced, his hands on her hips familiar even if these feet have forgotten the steps. He’s thought of nothing but kissing her since the moment she took down her ridiculous red hood, and yet, now that he’s finally got her alone, he’s lost for words.

River Song is pressed against the ornately decorated wall of the nicest restaurant in the galaxy, the Darilllum sun long set, with nothing but stars as their witness, and he can’t for the life of him figure out what comes next. Well, he can. But  _how?_ Her lips are full and pink and parted on a question that his own mouth longs to answer. Green eyes pierce into him like daggers, so open and eager and unsure. She’s uncertain of what he’ll do next, of why he’s not snogging her senseless when one of his hands has her firmly by the hip, pressing her back into a cushion of petals. His other hand frames her cheek, her skin warm against his palm. She’s flushed, from the wine, yes, but from the promise of him, too. She all but told him so over dessert, not with words but with how her bashful eyes kept dragging across his throat. Subconscious or no, she licked her lips every time her gaze lingered too long on his fidgeting fingers. She used to give Bow Tie the same hungry stare. She’d make a blushing fool of him with her eyes alone, and when she got him alone, she’d put his fingers to her lips and do things that made him flush all over. 

River does none of that now. She remains still as stone, yet still supple beneath his fingers. Her chest rises and falls in even rhythms. She swallows, the faintest sound falling from her lips. The Doctor feels his body shiver at such an invitation, at her mouth and the way he longs to press his own against her. He wants to kiss her cheeks and temples and throat and everywhere else she’ll let him. And yet his lips tremble, with want and with worry, because what if he does it wrong? What if this mouth kisses differently than Bow Tie had? What if she doesn’t like it? What if his Scottish tongue doesn’t roll against hers in all the right ways? What if she doesn’t hum into his mouth and arch into his chest? What if-

“We’ve only got twenty-four years, honey. Do you plan to spend the whole night like this?” River asks softly, a ripple of a laugh in her tone despite her own nervous tongue. “Not that I’m complaining. The view is certainly worth it.”

She’s looking at him when she says it, not the fairy lights or the stars. She has eyes only for him, and the Doctor can’t help the way he shifts a little closer, blocking out the world around them just for good measure. “I could you know, stare at you for the next two decades.”

Ancient eyes roam across her face like he’s seeing it for the very first time, memorizing the way the corner of her mouth twitches when she attempts to hide her delight. “Well, isn’t this body a sweet-talker,” she teases him.

“It’s really not,” he chuckles, thinking back to the not so distant past, when he carried flashcards to remind him of empathy. River Song always did have a way of shifting the world around her, of making him a better man than he was before she graced him with her smile.

“Coulda fooled me,” she shrugs, amused, and it’s almost reflex, the way his lips curl fondly in response.

“There’s a first time for everything,” he hums. The hand on her cheek slips lower, the thumb finding her bottom lip. River’s breath hitches and he swears his hearts stop and start again a million times over in the split second it takes her to remember to breathe. Her lips part for him, and there’s that question again, the one that begs to be answered. The Doctor’s hearts hammer against his chest, unable to look away from the picture they make. His hand delicately framing her jaw, the faintest bit of pressure against her bottom lip as his thumb smooths over the sensitive skin.

He’s mapping her, remembering her, and River must know. River always knows, because she holds deathly still, eyes glued to his as he memorizes the flesh he knows so intimately. It’s all new to these hands, and he wonders if his callouses bother her, if his rough musician’s hands can make her squirm in all the ways his other body could.

The hand framing her face shifts, about to pull away when her tongue sneaks out, tasting the salt and pheromones clinging to his skin. The Doctor shivers at the sensation, wondering if he tastes the same, if she’s imagining his fingers in all the places to wants to explore. When his eyes finally break from her mouth, he finds her pupils blown, the green of her eyes speckled with starlight. It’s a sight brighter than anything the night sky could ever conjure. He’d make a wish on it if her standing before him wasn’t evidence it had already come true.

A shaky breath ghosts across his thumb, interrupting his thoughts. He wonders if she was holding it, if she trapped the air in her lungs because she feared releasing it would make him scatter to the wind.  The Doctor’s grip on her hip tightens, his hearts pounding because the wife he hasn’t kissed for a few billion years is waiting for him. He doesn’t know what to say or how to say it, how to ask for what he wants or apologize for all the ways he might be different. He thinks he remembers how to be hers. He knows the science behind how kisses work, but this mouth has never succumb to that inexplicable need to press itself to another. This tongue has never craved to tangle with another, not until now.

“River..” he sighs out, because all other words fall short, nothing encompasses what he needs like the sound of her name.

His wife doesn’t disappoint, nothing on her lips but want and understanding as she gasps out, “ _Yes_.”

The needy tone is enough to make his insides coil, to banish his nerves. He closes the distance between them, collapsing into her like debris into a star. River’s mouth is on his and he’s burning, falling, being reborn, and all those other larger than life things only River can make him feel. His hand maps its way across her rib cage, her sequin dress scratching at his palm. His fingers stall beneath her breasts and River’s hearts pound against her chest so hard he feels it through the skin and bones and cloth that separate them. And he’d quite forgotten how alive she felt, how alive she always makes him feel.  

Maybe it’s the new face or the years between them, but he swears she kisses him more enthusiastically than she ever has before. Her hands bury in his hair, nails digging into his scalp like she means to make a home in his bones. He hopes she does. He hopes she brands him with new memories, that her laugh will light a fire that keeps him burning for the next dozen centuries.

His hand fists into her hair and River answers him with a whimper that makes his toes curl. He’d been a fool to be nervous about this. Falling into sync with her is a constant in every life. Loving River Song is a dance he knows well, and the Doctor wraps his arms around her, pushing against her and pressing her back against the wall. His tongue snakes out to ghost across her bottom lip, and River grants him permission the way she always has. She moans against his mouth, a shaky, wanton sound, as she arches into him as best she can.

It’s an invitation he accepts greedily, deepening the kiss, slipping between her parted lips to roll his tongue against hers. River mimics the movement with her hips, teasing him in ways that ought to be illegal. It probably is, on a planet or two, and she wouldn’t be his River if she didn’t break rules simply for the thrill of being scolded.

His past faces would have pulled back by now. He’d gasp for breath with swollen lips and tell her she’s beautiful when she misbehaves before dragging her off to his ship. This face however, doesn’t seem to have any intentions of stopping. He shifts slightly, just enough to press his knee between her thighs. River gasps as the delicious pressure, her hands dropping to his shoulders to hang on for dear life. It’s more bold a move than Bow Tie ever pulled in such a public place. River would laugh at him if she knew he was competing with himself, but she’s rather distracted at the moment, lips too busy parting on a moan to bother with teasing. 

“Sweetie,” she groans in surprise, her mouth breaking from his. His finds a new home on her neck, sucking at her pulse point like it’s something he can swallow and keep locked in a secret place. River’s nails dig into his shoulders so hard he’s sure she’s marked him even through the layers of his suit.

He curses into her skin, his Scottish tongue far from shy as he tells her how perfect she looks in the pale light, how much he’s missed the sounds she makes, and how scared he was that this new body would never get to hear them, that he wouldn’t know how or she wouldn’t let him. River listens like the saint she is; she takes in his fear and releases it back to him in soft whimpers and sharp gasps.

“Loving this side of you, darling,” River pants out the encouragement, and when she’s had enough of his teasing teeth, her hand winds into his hair, fingers finding purchase easily in his messy locks.

She pulls him away to look at him, and the Doctor grins like a Cheshire Cat, finding confidence in a fact that once frightened him as he grabs a fistful of her dress and begins to lift it up over her hips. “New face. New rules.”


	15. Go fish

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Doctor purses his lips, reluctantly making to surrender the card. She never does get her spoils, though, because an explosion chooses then to rock the foundation of her day spa. The violent sound rattles the walls, dust and debris raining from the ceiling, and the next thing she knows, the Doctor is on top of her, shielding her. His sharp edges press quite deliciously against her curves, his face only inches from hers. River can’t help but smirk, because usually explosions happen after he’s already on top of her, not before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Right to the good parts prompt: 10/River "I have you shoved against the wall but now I can’t stop looking at your mouth"

“Go fish,” River smirks.

The man across from her frowns, reaching for the deck. Bubbles cling to his coat sleeves, small droplets of water dripping off his cuff as he plucks up another card.

“Oh! Got what I asked for!” he exclaims, brandishing his pair of twos as if he’s just won the lottery. The bath water sloshes slightly, bubbles lapping at River’s collar bone. She swears they lose half the tub every time he gets excited, which would have been quite the opposite of a problem if the husband she was expecting had answered her summons. As it is, the pretty face at the other end of the bath remains fully clothed and devoutly focused on his playing cards.   He’s even kept his shoes on, which wouldn’t bother her so much if the souls of said sand shoes didn’t keep squeaking against the porcelain tub. His pin stripe suit has been ruined by lavender oils, not to mention the soggy state of his cards, and River marvels at just how oblivious the most clever man she knows can be.

When he initially produced the deck from his pocket, offering them as a means of passing the time, naturally River had suggested strip poker. Her spiky haired almost husband had declined on account of it being wildly unfair, what with him still in his coat and she being, well, dressed significantly more appropriate for one taking a bubble bath.

He doesn’t bat an eye at her indecency, though his next face certainly will. He may pretend to be a bashful, blushing boy, but oh, does he look. In fact, his next face hardly ever stops looking, his gaze glued to her curves from the moment she crash landed into his TARDIS. He’d been all hands even then. But this face, she thinks this one genuinely doesn’t notice that he’s inches away from her naked body. He doesn’t pause or stutter at her bare shoulders or the curves that hide beneath a thick layer of bubbles and soap. She wonders what brings about the change, if it’s simply regeneration or if it’s something she does to him between now and then, a moment or a word or a trick of the light that finally makes this oblivious, pretty face realize what he’s missing. If it’s the latter, she’s certainly keen to find out.

River hums, shifting her shoulders and settles further into water. She eyes the royalty she’s been collecting in her hand, thoughts drifting to his coat as she mourns the fact they decided against strip poker. “Do you have any queens?” River coos.

The Doctor purses his lips, reluctantly making to surrender the card. She never does get her spoils, though, because an explosion chooses then to rock the foundation of her day spa. The violent sound rattles the walls, dust and debris raining from the ceiling, and the next thing she knows, the Doctor is on top of her, shielding her. His sharp edges press quite deliciously against her curves, his face only inches from hers. River can’t help but smirk, because usually explosions happen after he’s already on top of her, not before.

The bubbles have shifted, thrown from the tub rather unceremoniously. There’s nothing to shield her from his eyes now, and her ever observant Doctor simply can’t help the way his gaze wanders. Her soapy chest is on display before his very eyes, and he stares, mouth agape, that pretty face blushing a deep crimson. It’s a shade dark enough to rival what his next self so frequently wears, and River doesn’t have to wonder anymore, what it is that makes his next body squirm whenever he looks at her.

River makes no efforts to move him, and she really probably should, seeing as a few echoing screams have followed that pesky explosion. But the man above her seems frozen in place, his eyes burning her skin as they find their way back to her face. His gaze doesn’t quite make it to her eyes though, held hostage by her lips instead. He stares at them like a man possessed, unable to move or speak, like one wrong move has sent him spiraling into a tailspin, caught in a gravity form which he can’t escape. Pupils buried within brown eyes have doubled in size, and as much as she adores that dazed, hungry look on that pretty boy face, she really ought to speak up.

“Sweetie,” River tries, and the Doctor swallows hard.

“Yes, River,” he manages through a dry throat, and River tames the smug way her cheeks threaten to curl.

“You’re on my hair,” she deadpans and the man above her blinks.

He remembers himself after a few rapid heartbeats, leaping back as if her naked body had burned him. And who knows, maybe it had. Maybe lying on top of her in a tepid bath was exactly what it took to start a fire in his old man soul. He hasn’t looked away from her, eyes glued to her form even as she sits up, making to stand. He’s still not out of the tub when another blast makes the building shudder on its foundation. It’s only when River reaches for the towel, covering herself that the spell over him breaks.

“Explosions!” he shouts, that Time Lord brain finally snapping back in to place, catching up on the time that’s passed now that he’s no longer frozen in it. His pinstripe suit is soaked to the bone, but he hardly notices, leaping from the bath. He’s nearly to the door, leaving wet footprints in his wake, when he skids to a halt, turning to face her. “River, are you coming?”

“If you were older, I might,” she answers, a hint of mischief tugging her lips. The Doctor flushes again, unsure how to respond now that he’s finally privy to all the innuendo he’s been previously missing. She lets him flounder for a moment, ringing out the moisture from her hair. He rocks on the balls of his feet, a nervous hand rubbing at his neck. He’s waiting on her, bless him, and River finally takes pity on him, tossing him a wink as she says, “Go on, Sweetie. I’ll catch up.”


	16. I guess this is goodbye

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The morning light is blinding after two decades of darkness, but River doesn’t dare shut her eyes. She refuses to blink, refuses to miss a moment of this. Her husband’s profile is cast in an orange glow, devastation he barely tries to hide wrinkling the corner of his eyes. Other colors dance across his skin, too, the last remaining evidence of the night they shared here making itself known in the form of pink and purple hues. The soft shades cling to the sky as desperately as her husband clings to her, their final few moments being chased away like shadows from the rising sun.
> 
> “I guess this is goodbye.” She says it like a question, and when the Doctor doesn’t correct her, River has her answer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing prompt: You’ve said you’re going to leave, but I don’t want you to go and if I don’t say something now…

The morning light is blinding after two decades of darkness, but River doesn’t dare shut her eyes. She refuses to blink, refuses to miss a moment of this. Her husband’s profile is cast in an orange glow, devastation he barely tries to hide wrinkling the corner of his eyes. Other colors dance across his skin, too, the last remaining evidence of the night they shared here making itself known in the form of pink and purple hues. The soft shades cling to the sky as desperately as her husband clings to her, their final few moments being chased away like shadows from the rising sun.

“I guess this is goodbye.” She says it like a question, and when the Doctor doesn’t correct her, River has her answer.

Her eyes find the Doctor’s one last time, searching them for  _something,_ some sign, some fragment of a request to stay. She finds only sadness, and River prods him in the ribs just once, one quick jab to the ticklish spot that always makes him squirm, for no other reason than to see him smile one last time.

He doesn’t disappoint, jerking slightly as his lips crawl upward against his will.

“Menace,” he grumbles in complaint, but he doesn’t mean a word of it.

“You love it,” River grins, and this is more like it. This is a farewell she can live with, their banter a memory far more pleasant than awkward silence and unshed tears.

Never one to outstay her welcome, River’s the one to pull away first. She kisses his cheek quickly, dancing away from him like she’s done a million times before, because if she lingers now, she’ll never find the courage to leave. Inches feel like miles already, and her hearts ache like they’re going to burst, like they’ve forgotten how to beat without him beside her. She puts on a brave face in spite of it all. They always knew this day would come and she’s not going to spoil their last moment together wishing for what can never be.  

“Try not to miss me too much,” she teases, and it must hurt him to hear it as much as it does her to say it, because the Doctor visibly flinches. She pretends not to notice, eyes cast downward to her vortex manipulator. Her shadow has grown longer, and River turns, taking a good, long look at the elusive star and the rocky planet that gave her so much precious time.

“River?” The Doctor blurts, and she hates herself for how quickly she turns around, snapping to attention at the sound of his voice.

His thick brow furrows, those ancient eyes brimming with melancholy because it hurts him, seeing how much this is clearly hurting her. River promised herself she would be stronger for him. This isn’t goodbye for her. She still has at least one more day waiting for her.

The Doctor steps closer or maybe she does, but he’s suddenly close enough to touch. She’d reach for him if she didn’t fear she’d never let go. “I was just thinking,” he starts, wetting nervous lips. “We have a time machine.”

“I had noticed, yes.”

“And it’s a very big planet.”

River nods in agreement, keeping her voice as even as she can while her hopes sky rocket and her hearts try to hammer out of her chest. “Yes, I’d noticed that, too.”

He tugs at his too long shirt sleeves, a cheeky thought dancing behind his eyes as he sways toward her. “If you’ll have me, we could always see what the sunset looks like from the other hemisphere?”

River’s jaw slacks, lips parting on a breathless gasp. “You mean…?”

And when that smug little smile she loves so much tugs at the corner of his mouth, there’s no stopping the way her body flings itself toward him, wrapping her arms around his neck. The Doctor folds around her in return, fingers spreading across her back like roots in soil. He breathes in deep, like she gives him life, like she’s all the sun he’ll ever need.

When she pulls back from the embrace, River chokes on a laugh even as she swats at his chest. “I can’t believe you almost let me leave.”

He pulls her into his chest again, so tight she can hardly breathe, but that suits River just fine. What use is air when she can hear his racing hearts? How could oxygen possibly tempt her lungs when the sweet sound of his voice fills her ears?  “No,” he whispers into her hair, kissing her temple. “Neither can I.”


	17. Pretty face required

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She saw the add a month ago: Archaeologist seeks spouse for covert mission. Good cardio recommended. Pretty face required.
> 
> Needless to say, the Doctor wasn’t surprised to discover that her wife was the one who placed the add. She was, however, suddenly very aware of why her last face had reminded River so much of her second wife.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> writing prompt: We were pretending to be lovers but I’m not pretending anymore and I have to know if you feel the same way
> 
> be sure to check out this amazing [comic strip](http://riveralwaysknew.tumblr.com/post/178315664687/river-song-x-thirteen-i-was-just-thinking) by riveralwaysknew

She saw the add a month ago:  _Archaeologist seeks spouse for covert mission. Good cardio recommended. Pretty face required._

Needless to say, the Doctor wasn’t surprised to discover that her wife was the one who placed the add. She was, however, suddenly very aware of why her last face had reminded River so much of her second wife.

As it turns out, River was looking to infiltrate a group of high society collectors in order to ‘ _liberate and relocate_ ’ -because steal is such a strong word- their artifacts. The trouble was, they only accept married members. The Doctor, of course, was all too happy to oblige. They got off to a rocky start, what with the Doctor introducing herself as  _John, no, er- Jane! Because I’m a woman, definitely a women. That’s not a problem, is it?_ River had been less than receptive at first, but after a significant amount of convincing and blatant sabotage of the other applicants, River, somewhat begrudgingly, chose her as an accomplice.

Things go a little smoother after that, plotting and scheming and coming up with a believable cover story. They spend the next few weeks sneaking into  _there_  and smuggling  _that_. They keep up appearances, attending swanky parties arm in arm, disguising reconnaissance as romantic walks beneath twin moons. They drink expensive champagne and mock the aristocracy, and when River holds a particularly insufferable man at gun point, the Doctor tries her best not to look too terribly besotted. This face fell for River Song the way planets fall into orbit. She sunk like a stone in the sea and drowned gladly, which only makes it hurt worse when she calls her  _Jane_ and not  _Doctor_. Fixed events tighten like a noose around her throat when she thinks about the fact that this face is one that can’t keep River, not without breaking all the rules _._

River notices, on an occasion or two, that her newfound partner in crime is suspiciously good at finishing her thoughts, anticipating her needs without having to be told. She never comments on it though, too caught up in pretending to be the psychopath she so often claims to be. River is all business when it comes to her work; she always has been. She leaves no stone unturned, no loose ends, and certainly no room for distractions.

Not that the Doctor doesn’t try.

“Riv-” she starts, only to be quickly silenced.

“I told you,” River corrects without looking up from her paperwork. “Call me Melody. Code names only when we’re under surveillance.”

The Doctor arches a brow, looking around their villa. “But we’re not under surveillance right now.”

“You never know who could be listening.” River gives her a pointed look before nodding to her sonic trowel, and the Doctor leaps to her feet to comply. She tosses the device to River, watching as she adjusts the settings until she’s certain the noise the tool puts off will disable any and all bugs planted in their room. When she’s satisfied with her work, she turns those piercing green eyes on the Doctor. “You were saying?”

“Yes,  _Melody,”_ because she loves calling her that, loves that of all the aliases in all the galaxies, River so frequently falls back on that one. The fondness in her tone that makes River roll her eyes. It hurts a little, the worth it kind of pain that the reminder you’re alive always brings, because, oh, if River really knew why she delights in saying that name, she wouldn’t think it ridiculous at all. “I was just thinking, tomorrow, after we stea-  _liberate_ the artifacts, what happens then?”

“Well,” River sighs, all business. “We make sure it gets to the transport, and after all the merchandise is safely procured and back in the museum owner’s hands, you’ll get your cut, as promised.”

“Right.” The Doctor nods along blankly. They’ve been over this plan a thousand times. She doesn’t know why she keeps asking, why she expects it to be different. She supposes she just hopes. “Will I see you again?”

The question seems impossibly soft against the grating hum of the sonic, and the Doctor knows her eyes are doing that thing again, when they go all doey and lovesick. But she can’t help it, not when her wife is right in front of her, not when there’s so much to say and she can’t utter a word of it without tearing a whole in space time. River turns to face her, setting the plans she’s been studying aside and giving her full attention.

“Jane,” she starts, and the Doctor prides herself on the fact that she’s finally numb enough to the faux title not to flinch. “I've… enjoyed these past few weeks.” She sounds like a diplomat, choosing her words carefully.

“But?” The Doctor asks around a defeated sigh, and River offers her a pained smile.

“But I’m not really looking for commitment.”

The Doctor snorts. “She says to her wife.”

“Fake wife,” River corrects, but she’s smirking as she says it, fighting back something she’s been trying to tame for weeks.

There are moments like these, fragile, secret little moments when River lets her guard down, when her laughter rings out bright and true, when a hint of longing sparkles behind green eyes. Each time she sees past the façade and into the woman she knows is hiding beneath, the Doctor can’t help but wonder if maybe, just maybe, River would fall for this face too.

The Doctor hasn’t once hinted at who she really is, no mentions of blue boxes or sonic screw drivers. She’s kept her identity like a secret tucked between her twin hearts, because it’s the only way to steal time with a wife who can’t know her. She’s cheating, she knows, tempting fate with every lie she tells and every day she stays.

She should take what she’s been given and be grateful. She should leave before it’s too late, before River figures it all out. In all honesty, she shouldn’t have stayed as long as she has. She never should have gotten comfortable here, never should have crawled into the same bed or danced beneath stars or become accustomed to the word  _darling_  on her lips.

She should never have brought up seeing her again. She should go before she sets herself up for failure, before she gets her hearts broken. But curse her curious nature, because she desperately wants to know, “But if things were different?” _If we had but time and stars that weren’t crossed.._ “Do you think you could ever…?”

The Doctor peeks up at her fake wife that doesn’t know she’s her real wife, and feels her hearts swell as a grin cracks River’s cheeks. Green eyes drag pointedly over this lean frame, her tone too sultry to be considered decent as she purrs out, “Oh honey, you’d be just my type.”

 


	18. Thermodynamics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She begins stirring at the feel of the cool breeze ghosting across her cheeks, but it’s the sound of clattering that finally lures her to consciousness. River peeks her eyes open to find her ridiculous, and decidedly nude husband, leaning half way out the window, his tiny bottom on display. She sighs dreamily at the sight. There are certainly worse things to wake up to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: cuddle with me so i can get warm

She begins stirring at the feel of the cool breeze ghosting across her cheeks, but it’s the sound of clattering that finally lures her to consciousness. River peeks her eyes open to find her ridiculous, and decidedly nude husband, leaning half way out the window, his tiny bottom on display. She sighs dreamily at the sight. There are certainly worse things to wake up to. 

Another gust of cool air creeps in through the open window, a crispness to it that can only mean Autumn has arrived. Truthfully, River had been aiming for Christmas, but the batteries on her vortex manipulator must need charging because she got early October instead. Not that she minds. She might even be convinced to stay through the new year if he keeps waking her up like this.  

More intrusive thuds disturb the morning stillness, and River finds the will to distance herself from the warmth of the bed, sitting up on her elbows. “Sweetie, what are you doing?”

“Experimenting!” he shouts with a flourish far too chipper for this time of the morning. Dawn is only just breaking the skyline and her parents are bound to still be asleep. Luckily, so is the rest of this town. She knows because if they weren’t, his state of undress would have given the elderly woman next door a heart attack by now.

River doesn’t need to ask with what he’s experimenting. There’s been but one thing that’s fascinated him since the moment she arrived. Well, one thing apart from what they did last night.  _That_  had certainly held his attention.

“The cubes haven’t done anything for months, not even when you tossed them into a volcano. I hardly think tipping them out the window will change anything.”

“They’ll do something eventually,” he says with narrowed, ever vigilant eyes. Her husband is rather annoyingly determined this morning, and River really doesn’t approve of having this whole bed to herself.

“Have you tried throwing them all at the same time?” River offers. “If they have a hive mentality, group trauma might trigger them.”

“That’s brilliant!” he exclaims, reaching for the bin filled with cubes and tipping it out the window. They clatter onto the pavement outside, entirely unchanged. With his toys gone and no answers to show for it, the Doctor frowns, a pout pinching that baby face. “Well that was a rubbish idea. What now?”

“You could always come back to bed,” River suggests sweetly, and when he glances at her over his shoulder, she bats innocent eyes in his direction.

The Doctor smirks knowingly, already sauntering back toward the bed when he asks, “What would be the point in that?”

“I have another experiment for you,” she answers, voice dry and throaty for reasons that have nothing to do with grogginess.

Her husband reads the invitation in her softly smirking lips, crawling onto the bed. “And what might that be?”

“It’s a friction based study in thermodynamics,” she purrs back, lying flat once again as the delicious weight of him presses her back into the bed.

The blanket acts as a barrier between them, but he sprawls across her anyway, his hip bones digging into her curves. Those pale arms frame her face, lithe forearms close enough to bite. And she just might, now that she thinks of it. River brushes her lips across the closest bit of skin she can find, considering the tempting thought. He’s cold to the touch, still chilled from his morning exploits, and River snakes her hands out from beneath the duvet to caress across his broad shoulders.

The Doctor shivers at her touch, at her palms against his bare skin. There’s a chuckle on his lips as he dips his head lower, kissing a path down her neck. “And what results are you looking to yield with this experiment, wife?”

“You’ll have to come under the covers if you want to find out,” she whispers, lips brushing the shell of his ear.

He pulls back the top of the duvet, peaking at her bare chest with feigned disinterest. “I could be persuaded, since it’s in the name of science.”

“Entirely academic,” River agrees, and the Doctor leans in to kiss away her grin. The press of his lips makes warmth spread through her core. And when both their core temperatures begin to rise, River knows her experiment is going to end far more successfully than her husband’s.


	19. Bonfire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill’s eyes dare to skirt across the woman before her, the one who summoned the Doctor with little more than a sultry smile and a snap of her fingers. They found her here in the desert, keeping warm by the roaring fire, which is a bit curious seeing as there aren’t any trees or plants or anything, really. Just sand and stars and a smile so bright she’s genuinely worried the Doctor might strain himself.
> 
> Before she knows it, her friend is pulling out marshmallows and biscuits and wire hangers from his top pocket, passing them around with unabashed glee. So Bill puts the curious source of the flames aside. She has far more pressing matters to see to.
> 
> “So,” she starts, glancing between the two as they snuggle in close. “She’s your wife?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> prompt: River x Twelve feat Bill + sitting at a bonfire

Bill’s eyes dare to skirt across the woman before her, the one who summoned the Doctor with little more than a sultry smile and a snap of her fingers. They found her here in the desert, keeping warm by the roaring fire, which is a bit curious seeing as there aren’t any trees or plants or anything, really. Just sand and stars and a smile so bright she’s genuinely worried the Doctor might strain himself.

Before she knows it, her friend is pulling out marshmallows and biscuits and wire hangers from his top pocket, passing them around with unabashed glee. So Bill puts the curious source of the flames aside. She has far more pressing matters to see to.

“So,” she starts, glancing between the two as they snuggle in close. “She’s your wife?”

“Yep,” the Doctor answers proudly, never breaking his gaze from the woman in question.

“The dead one?”

The question falls flat on the floor, making her friend splutter and fidget in his seat. “Well not anymore, clearly.” 

“Yeah but like, you can’t just be  _not dead_. It doesn’t work like that.” Bill twists the wire hanger in her fingers, dangling the marshmallow over the flames. The treat browns almost immediately, the metal in her hands pleasantly warm as a thought occurs to her. “Wait, are you a cyborg?”

“I should think not!” River scoffs out an incredulous laugh, her golden hair framing her face like a halo. “You can do better than that, sweetie.”

The Doctor remains uncharacteristically silent, a frown creasing his brow and a petulant purse to his lips. Bill observes him, puzzled until River answers her unspoken question, patting the Doctor’s knee.

“He hasn’t figured it out yet, bless.” The Doctor’s hand covers the one she placed on his leg, stilling it as his thumb strokes reverently across her wrist. The woman smiles at the reverent touch, voice soft and reassuring as she adds, “But you will.”

River’s eyes cut to him, smug and sweet and brimming with an endless, enduring sort of faith. The Doctor must feel his wife’s gaze on him or maybe he simply can’t look away for too long, because his eyes are glued to his wife once more. An orange glow washes over their profile, warm and soothing. Bill can’t help but notice that the Doctor’s eyes are alight, burning with that ancient passion he usually reserves for running and shouting and saving. It’s an old love shining in his eyes, the kind that’s seen it all and still comes out as smitten as they were in the very beginning, the kind that only grows stronger with time.

The Doctor is the one to scoot closer, like even moonlight between them is too much. His fingers brush back a lock of the woman’s wild hair, looking at her with what can only be described as intent. It’s sweet, and yeah, a bit gross, but mostly sweet. Bill breaks her eyes from the hypnotizing sight before her intrusive staring ends up leaving her traumatized.

Bill’s gawking eyes drift back to her treat only to find that the snack has gone up in flames. She yanks it from the fire in a flurry, blowing on the now burnt morsel until the embers on her gooey hunk of coal subside.

The goddess of a woman notices, sultry green eyes locking with Bill’s for only a moment before Bill can blush, looking away in a panic.

“Hands off,” she hears River whisper against the Doctor’s cheek. “You’re embarrassing your friend. Your only one, I expect.”

The Doctor scoffs but doesn’t untangle his hand from hers. “I’ll have you know, I’ve plenty o-“

“Nardole doesn’t count,” River interjects.

The Doctor huffs, a smile still hiding beneath his faux frown. 

“What’s that smell anyway?” Bill asks, salvaging what she can of her smore and stuffing it into her mouth. “What are we burning?”

“Oh, just the fuel reserves of some friends of mine.” River explains, nonchalantly plucking the marshmallow from the end of her utensil. “Well, I say friends. They did try and eject me into a black hole. It was only polite to return the favor.”

“River.” The Doctor arches a chastising brow, the very sound of the woman’s name an admonishment.  

The woman merely shrugs, sandwiching the gooey treat between two halves of a biscuit. “Honestly, darling, they really were very not nice people. The universe won’t miss them.”

He grumbles in response, clearly not approving. But when River offers him her delicious and decidedly not burned snack, he accepts it with a fond, albeit, exasperated smile. Definitely his wife, then. Bill smiles to herself, thinking that anyone who could make the Doctor look at them like that, was clearly a force to be reckoned with.

“Right,” Bill nods cautiously. “Remind me not to get on your bad side.”


End file.
